Sentinels (The Sentinels Series Book 1)

by David Longhorn

  “Gangway, coming through!” says another.

  Appearing out of the mist, behind the Green Man, the three Land Girls push through the crowd and make their way to Professor Pardoe. Rachel notices that their clothes are muddy and they're red-faced from exertion. She gets a sudden sinking feeling.

  The women head for the professor.

  “Hope there's a finder's fee for this,” says Elsie, and hands something to the scientist. Pardoe is stunned, staring open-mouthed at a small, colorful object.

  “What is it?” someone asks.

  “A gold-mounted jewel, perhaps part of a dagger or sword hilt,” says the scientist, beaming with enthusiasm.

  “That's nothing!” says Jo proudly. “We found a lot more.”

  “Shh!” Elsie elbows her friend in the ribs, sensing the uncertain mood of the villagers.

  “But where did you find this?” asks Pardoe.

  The Land Girls look at one another, then Jo says, “Well, we just did some digging at a place marked on your map. He told us it was all right with you, see?”

  She unfolds a map and points to a feature clearly marked with an X. Rachel can see it's a short distance behind the inn.

  “Who do you mean? Who told you all this?” asks Rachel.

  “Your gorgeous friend, Carl,” says Grace, jerking her head to indicate the direction they came from. “He's back there on that mound in the woods, waiting. He told us to come and get the professor.”

  “Carl's watching over the grave,” adds Elsie.

  She shudders.

  “Rather him than me! That place gives me the creeps.”

  “You found a grave?” asks Pardoe.

  “Too right! Well, we found a helmet and a skull and that jewel thing. Carl said we'd better not dig up any more without you, Prof! Besides, we have to get back to the farm. Here, what's all this about?”

  Reverend Black and the villagers are already setting off around the inn, with Bryce and the military trying vainly to stop them. It's not quite an angry mob from a horror movie, not yet, but Rachel knows that things could turn ugly.

  I can't believe he'd be that dumb.

  Then a thought comes to her and she freezes, paralysed by doubt.

  Oh god, I can't believe I was that dumb.

  Rachel remembers the sound of a small engine in the early hours. She sees Molly Bishop at the tail-end of the crowd and runs after her.

  “Molly! Molly, does Carl have a motorbike?”

  “Why, yes, miss, he always comes down from the air base on it. I let him keep it in the tool shed out back. Why, what's wrong?”

  “I'll explain later!”

  Rachel rushes on to catch Tony Beaumont and takes him to one side.

  “What is it? I shouldn't be chatting.”

  “I think Carl's the Nazi agent.”

  She tells him about last night, and despite her stressed-out state, she still notes a flash of jealousy when she gets to the bit about Carl being in her room.

  “Focus, Tony, nothing happened! The point is I told him the crown was probably buried in the woods. I think I just confirmed what he already suspected. Point is, he's probably concealed his bike somewhere near the digging site so he can make a quick getaway.”

  “Look,” he replies after a moment, “if he's waiting on the mound, we'll know you're wrong. If not, an American on an RAF motorbike won't be hard to spot. If we put out a general alert, roadblocks will stop him soon enough.”

  “I hope you're right.”

  They start running to catch up with the crowd that's almost disappeared in the ever-denser mist.

  “If he doesn't head inland on his bike, where else might he go?” she asks herself aloud.

  “Well, he can't exactly swim to Germany, can he?” he answers distractedly.

  “No, but he could take a plane.”

  “Good God, yes! We'll have to radio RAF Minton.”

  Tony stops for a moment, then rushes ahead shouting for Captain Walker.

  Rachel stops and looks around.

  No. It's still too obvious. Carl's daring but he's not that reckless.

  She peers around her into what's become, in the last few minutes, a dense fog cutting visibility to a maybe ten yards. She can't see anyone, not quite. But she senses a presence. Then Rachel sees a movement, back the way she's come. It's something like a sketch of a man, a hastily-drawn stick figure, striding stiffly through the swirling gray. The Sentinel is not heading for the mound in the woods. Rachel changes direction, and runs in the same direction.

  Chapter 12

  The submarine noses through the swirling sea-fog like a steel sea-monster seeking prey. The conning tower is crowded with men keeping lookout for hazards and enemy units. A crewman stands at the bow taking soundings with a weighted line, shouting out the depth in meters at thirty second intervals. Meanwhile, on the foredeck, preparations for the special mission are under way.

  “A most fortunate change in the weather, is it not?” says the first officer.

  Kessler nods as he secures his life-jacket over his absurd tweed coat. The fog has wrapped the U-66 in a gray shroud; it must be all but invisible from shore. The disadvantage is that the vessel has to move at a snail's pace, but there's no doubt that they're now under the cliffs at Duncaster. They can hear the sound of waves on the shore, and a key landmark, the stunted church tower, is just visible with binoculars.

  Crewmen on the cramped deck are preparing an inflatable boat for the trip ashore. Volunteers will paddle Kessler to the beach for the rendezvous, then stand off and await his signal. Machine-gun crews are at their posts in case an enemy plane should suddenly emerge from the fog. Unlikely, but not impossible.

  Captain Stahl barks an order down the hatchway and the submarine's diesel motors stop. The vessel quickly loses headway and is soon drifting. Now, the boat can be launched safely.

  Kessler feels useless amid all the activity and tries to focus on the mission, narrowing it down to the simplest of elements. He will meet with the agent, shoot him dead, and take the crown. Kessler has a conscience, of sorts, and it goes against the grain to kill a man in cold blood, but he has his orders.

  Leave no loose ends, Himmler told him. Our agent is a useful tool, but a traitor of that sort is of no lasting value to the Fatherland. He may betray us as readily as he has betrayed his adopted nation. And once a spy's cover is blown, he is worthless anyway.

  ***

  She's at the head of the path down to the beach when Carl emerges from the fog. He's walking quickly with a knapsack on his back. Seeing her, he smiles, but less broadly than usual, then kneels down and puts the bag on the grass.

  “Smart of you to figure out I'd double back this way,” he says. “Or did you have help from one of our skinny friends?”

  “The rest of them are out in the woods,” Rachel replies. She stands looking down at him, wondering how she could have been taken in. But she's not the only one.

  “Those young women were very willing to do a bit of digging, I suppose?”

  “Oh yeah, they were real keen to further the cause of archeology,” he says. “And you can imagine how pleased they were when we unearthed this.”

  He opens the sack and reaches inside. She hears something scream, and is sure it's not a seagull. It is something close by. She doesn't turn her head. She doesn't want to see it again.

  Carl takes out the crown, stands up, and holds it in front of her eyes. It's almost frail, a simple gold band enclosed with crudely-cut stones. But despite the basic workmanship, Rachel feels an aura of ancient power, so much so that she half-expects the air to crackle with electricity. For the first time, she understands the old poetic phrase 'a kingly crown'.

  She offers him an opening by saying, “Professor Pardoe will be pleased, not to mention that grim bastard Bryce.”

  Carl's only reply is a short bark of laughter.

  “Come on, Carl, you can still change your mind!”

  He looks out to sea and nods in satisfaction.

/>   “Ideal conditions,” he says. “We really are in luck.”

  She can guess his answer.

  “Near zero visibility – perfect for a small submarine to come close inshore, running on the surface, without much risk of being spotted. They'll put a boat ashore, and I'll be in Germany for breakfast. Maybe they'll give me a medal!”

  “Why are you doing this? What makes a man like you work for those lunatics in Berlin?”

  “A man like me? You mean a German-American, a man of pure Nordic stock, just like old King Redwald?”

  He waves the crown as if it illustrates his point.

  “Yeah, that's your missing piece of the puzzle, Ace Girl Reporter. I figured it out last night. You know why the Sentinels can't quite decide if I'm the enemy? Can't get a bead on me even though they knew I was after this thing? Because, like all true Nazis, I'm of the same Aryan blood, the same tribe as those long-dead Saxons, or near as dammit!”

  “That's crazy!”

  “Is it any crazier than ghosts guarding a crown for over a thousand years? Those dumb old spooks are so fixated on Celts and other outsiders. And maybe, deep down, they know that becoming part of the Reich would be the right thing for England.”

  “Rachel!”

  Carl's rant is interrupted by a distant shout, hard to tell from where in the fog. Visibility is down to about five feet, now.

  Carl puts the crown on top of the knapsack and takes a revolver from under his jacket. He aims it past Rachel, and she hears running footsteps approaching. A man in an officer's uniform emerges from the fog.

  “What are you playing at, Tanner? You'll never get away with it! You might as well give yourself up,” implores Tony Beaumont.

  “Don't try it, Tony,” replies Carl as the Englishman starts to fumble for his gun. “I don't want to give my position away to Bryce and Walker, but I'll shoot you, if I must.”

  “Carl?” Rachel asks. Despite all the evidence, part of her is still unwilling to believe. “Do you really want to do this?”

  “Sorry, it's nothing personal, believe me,” he says, but with a sarcastic edge in his voice. “I have to go. Don't think I'll be seeing you around.”

  “The Sentinels won't let you take it! Do you think they're scared of that gun?”

  He looks closely at her.

  “They're close by, right? I only catch glimpses, like I said. But they're still not sure about me. Maybe they're just not that smart, even for a bunch of dead guys.”

  He smiles sneeringly, and she wonders how she had ever found that smug, arrogant face attractive. Suddenly, she wants to smash her fist into it, and her expression alarms him so he turns the gun barrel towards her.

  Tony sees a chance and lunges forward, hands outstretched, but the distance is just a shade too great. Carl has time to swing the gun back and shoot the Englishman in the chest, point-blank. Tony falls forward onto the crown.

  “You murdering bastard!”

  “Don't do it!” warns Carl, white-faced with shock, as Rachel moves to help Tony. Carl shoves Beaumont's body aside with his foot, and stoops to retrieve the crown, which is now stained with his victim's blood. He keeps her covered as he slings the bag over his shoulder, then takes a few steps back.

  “Don't try to follow me or I will kill you! I'd rather not waste ammunition. Only five rounds left, now, thanks to our impulsive friend there, and I might still need them, after all.”

  He turns and sets off down towards the beach. As he scrambles down the path, the fog closes in and he becomes a gray ghost, then vanishes. A shadowy, slender figure glides after him.

  Rachel checks Tony, giving a cry of despair at the blood welling up through his khaki uniform. She finds a pulse that seems strong and regular, then runs to get help. Rachel hears herself shouting like a crazy person in the fog, then almost runs into Captain Walker who, pistol drawn, is coming along the cliff road with a few of his men. Just behind them, she sees Bryce.

  “He shot Tony! He's back there – someone get him a doctor!”

  Then she turns and, ignoring their questions, scrambles down onto the beach to follow Carl. She feels a Sentinel at her side, glimpses its wasted form as it disappears into the fog before her. She has no doubt that Carl meant it when he threatened to kill her. But she's sure he'll be busy with more serious opponents long before she catches him.

  ***

  “Did you hear that?” asks the first officer.

  Anton Kessler almost stands upright in the dinghy, remembering just in time not to risk capsizing the frail craft. The naval ratings stop paddling and they all listen. Was that a gunshot from the direction of the shore?

  “Damn, that can't be good!” says one of the crewmen.

  “We must still attempt to land!” insists Kessler.

  The crew looks to their first officer, who hesitates. Nobody wants to get on the wrong side of Himmler, after all. Minutes pass while Kessler and the navy men argue in short whispers.

  Then more shots settle the issue.

  “That was a large caliber, most likely a pistol,” says the officer. “It seems your man is in trouble, major.”

  “That does not change the situation, lieutenant,” says Kessler firmly. “We have our orders! It is our sworn duty to proceed inshore and -”

  He's interrupted by a shocking scream from the same direction as the shots. It sounds very close.

  “To hell with that! It's not my duty to get us all killed!” says the submariner.

  Kessler draws a gun from inside his tweed jacket and sticks it in the officer's face.

  “I order you to carry on inshore! It is our duty to the Fatherland to assault the English coast and complete our mission, and I will not -”

  But again he's interrupted, this time by splashing at the stern of the dinghy. One of the sailors shouts something about a man in the water. Another takes a swing at Kessler with a paddle, knocking the gun barrel up as he fires. The paddle connects with the side of the SS man's head and sends him sprawling across another sailor.

  The first officer grabs Kessler's gun and the two men struggle, but then a black, triangular object jabs up through the canvas bottom of the boat. The pistol goes over the side as both men freeze in mid-struggle, watching the blade as it finishes its work and then vanishes.

  It looked like a rusty old sword, thinks Kessler. How ridiculous.

  Then water surges into the dinghy and he quickly finds himself going under. His English gentleman's attire becomes waterlogged, but he manages to inflate his life-jacket. He begins to kick for the shore, reasoning that it's nearer than the submarine. He might still salvage his mission.

  Something grabs him by the ankle. Bony fingers pull him under. He is startled as he inhales a mouthful of seawater. He breaks surface again, spluttering, kicking madly at the unseen assailant. Kessler goes down for a second time and feels rather than sees in the near-blackness someone climbing up his body with sharp-nailed fingers. He reaches down to try and crush his assailant's windpipe, but his own fingers close over leathery skin that gives way, so that Kessler's flesh is cut on sharp bones. The other reaches up and grabs Kessler's face. His yell of agony emerges in the form of bubbles.

  ***

  “Rachel! Wait!”

  Somewhere in the back of her mind, it registers that Bryce has used her first name.

  He must be getting over-excited. And with those long legs, he's got to be gaining on me. But I've still got a good lead.

  Rachel can only see a couple of yards ahead of her but she continues running along the beach, occasionally stumbling over heaps of seaweed. She twists her ankle thanks to an unexpected dip in the sand and this slows her down.

  She's not the only pursuer. The trail she's following makes that clear. There are two sets of footprints, one from a man's square-toed shoes, the others more difficult to make out. They seem to be the imprints of naked feet – each toe is clearly visible. But the follower's prints are sketchy and painfully thin, as if the feet that made them are bare of footwear as wel
l as flesh. As she limps along, Rachel notices that the two sets of prints are growing wider apart.

  He started running when he saw what was following him. But I bet it could run faster.

  There are two shots, then, startling in the fog, then another followed by a muffled scream – whether of pain, anger, or a mixture of both, Rachel can't tell. For a moment, the gray veil is lifted and she sees a thin figure crouching over a dark shape on the ground. The former lifts an object high up and then plunges it down viciously into the lying body, which jerks for an instant before going still. The attacker then leans over its victim’s head and makes a kind of pulling motion with its hands.

  The fog closes in again. Rachel slows down.

  ***

  Out at sea, Captain Stahl of U-66 is asking his crewmen if they can hear shots, shouting, or screams. Opinion is divided. The fog is no longer an ally but a sinister cloak hiding their every unspoken fear.

  “We will move inshore, slowly, and start patrol,” declares Stahl, his voice firmer than his resolve. He shouts down the hatchway to the helmsman. “Both motors ahead one quarter revolutions! Steer two-six-three, magnetic.”

  Doubtful glances are exchanged, but the U-66 begins to nose in towards the vague wall of darker gray that marked the land. For a long minute, the vessel moves towards the enemy coast, and the party on the conning tower begin to relax. Then the captain remembers the man at the bow. When did he last give a depth reading?

  “Midshipman Kleist! How many meters? Speak up, man!”

  There is no reply. Stahl can just make out a man-like form in the fog, standing absolutely still at the bow.

  “Kleist, you will report depth at thirty second intervals!”

  Still no reply. Furious and conscious of growing panic around and within him, the captain orders all engines to stop and scrambles down the tower ladder to the deck. The boat is still moving thanks to inertia, though slowing perceptibly.

  “Kleist, what the hell are you playing at?”

  Stahl is about to grab the man and shake some sense into him, but then stops, confused. The withered figure standing at the bow is not in uniform. In fact, it seems to be dressed in a few scraps of colorless cloth. The person, whoever it is, turns and reaches out skeletal arms, a nest of sharp talons reaching for the face of the captain, who recoils in terror and gropes for his sidearm. Then a jolting impact runs through the U-66 and hurls Stahl into the creature's arms. Momentum carries both of them straight over the vessel's bow and into the water. The splash is inaudible above the confused shouts from the conning tower.